


Collected Drabbles

by Cynara



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 23:58:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynara/pseuds/Cynara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are drabbles, double drabbles, triples and sometimes related drabbles. They were from various lj communities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Earth

Illya shifted his grip on his rifle's stock, waiting. He'd dug into what had been drying mud two days ago, knowing he'd never get help here in time. His communicator had been compromised by sand and by silt. He'd have to use the second round for the petrol tank.

The self-styled General had overwhelmed a WHO researcher, seizing the sample of a fourth poliomyelitis serotype. It must not be weaponized. He had to assume they'd all been exposed.

He waited. Inhale. Exhale. Squeeze. Clear and reload. Exhale. Squeeze. He cleared the weapon, his face warmed by the explosion. Inhale. Exhale.


	2. Air

"It had seemed a good idea at the time." Napoleon considered them as an epitaph. A coffin would be warm and terrestrial, opposed to his location outside of a perfectly good airplane.

He'd seen his target escaping. Napoleon was loathe to lose 'Lazarus', which now appeared to be a rotating courier name. Only the improvised runway disguised his presence at takeoff. Illya would know the change in the rate of fuel burned.

And the maximum ceiling of this craft and his lungs. Napoleon feared he'd misjudged the relation between the two. Good thing he'd chained himself on before losing feeling.


	3. Water

Water. Illya turned the taps and tilted his head back letting welcoming the sluicing shower. He reduced the cold, lathered his hair, scrubbed his body. Hot water, an agent's natural element. He flexed his back, stretched full body, rotated under the spray.

He turned off the water. Illya stepped out of the shower, rubbed briskly with the thick towel. He dressed. Exited.

Napoleon smiled from his lean against the wall. "You're going out like that?" He looked over the faded sweatpants, the white t-shirt. The black holster.

"I've my jacket."

He'd shown up stating his water was off. "Just stay."


	4. Water Prequel

Illya stepped inside his door, resetting the alarm by rote and headed for his bedroom. He pulled out a pair of sweats and a tshirt before heading into his bathroom. He wanted a quick shower, a long soak and to fall into his own bed.

He set the clothing on the back of the tank, pulled the flow regulator and spun the hot water knob. A trickle of water came out and then ended. Illya turned off the hot, pushed down the regulator and tried the cold. Dribble.

He checked the lavatory, then flew to the kitchen. The same.

Napoleon's.

Illya scooped up the change of clothes and left his apartment. The subway was standing room only, so he hung onto a loop, clothing hugged to his chest. He got off at the stop, walked to Napoleon's building, swept past the doorman and took the elevator.

He rung Napoleon's doorbell, and he waited for the door to open.

"Illya?" Napoleon's collar was open and his cuffs rolled back.

"My water is off." He headed for his friend's bathroom.

Napoleon locked back up. It wasn't often his partner wanted anything from him. He resumed straightening his apartment. Napoleon awaited Illya's exit.


	5. Valentine

They were older. Something that only happened to the best spies. They'd been lucky. They come through everything, not unscathed, but together and altogether. More than forty years, unreasonably fortunate.

Their love had outlived countries. There had been years they'd barely seen each other, sacrificed once they ceased risking capture at least every month. They compromised less now. They could see the world to tomorrow from the same city. Mostly. Get up together, or slip into the same bed at least.

Their youth had been shed along with their blood. Scars wrote their story in flesh.

Illya grinned at Napoleon.

 

∞∞∞∞∞

Napoleon smiled, intrigued by Illya's wicked upturn of lips. The years had been kinder to his love, leaving him honed and spare like a fine blade from a master swordsmith. He resisted plunging his fingers into the once more long hair.

Illya kissed him methodically and to great effect, like setting explosives. Napoleon sank his fingers into the once electrum strands now patinaed to honey oak. He let Illya pull back, still cradling his head. He smiled as Illya wove his fingers between his, taking a captive's pose.

He was the one happily snared. Sickness, health. Richer, poorer. Death, beyond.


	6. Kiss

Chapped. Sunburnt. Split.

Napoleon couldn't resist Illya's lips irregardless of condition. They'd kissed despite broken jaws, his and Illya's, stitches and concentrated capsicum.

They'd kissed at low ebb and at high, when death's victory seemed near and after cheating Charon of his fare. In need, in greeting, comfort, passion.

Love.

Napoleon dipped in for a soft press, whisper brush of lips.

Illya caught Napoleon by the nape and pressed his advantage of surprise to plunder his partners's mouth. Just as Napoleon needed to breath, he was pushed away.

"We must go." Illya got up, dressed.

Even past death he'd follow.


	7. Tub

Napoleon looked at the brimming tub, amazed something so large could be contained somewhere so small. He wondered why his partner hadn't resurfaced when he'd entered; used to be Illya would pull a gun on him, dripping wet and wearing a towel, him still re-arming the alarm. Only knowing Illya's ways kept him from worrying much, when his watch went to three minutes. He could see his partner. Small bubbles escaped his nostrils. Just a normal bath, for Illya.

Illya surged up through the surface and stood, a single fluid motion, his blue eyes on Napoleon.

"Pass me a towel."


	8. Report

Illya stalked into their office. Napoleon was behind his desk.

Napoleon looked up, swallowing.

"You..." 'American' wasn't strong enough for this, and aspersions on Napoleon's relations were uncalled for. "manipulative" He slapped down the postcard.

Napoleon picked it up. "P.O.E.M.?" He ignored the addressee area, keeping his expression light.

"'Write the report, Illya?'" Illya walked towards his desk. "'You word things so much better.'" He sat down.

Napoleon swallowed. "Jig's up?" He smiled wanely. Play with fire... He was sitting in the hot seat.

Illya took out the stack of forms and carbons.

"Illya..."

"The Professional Organization of English Majors."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so much my head canon, I've even an icon for it.


	9. Exotic

Deep waters hide treasure. Difficult to plunder, their storms take large prizes.

My partner is like that, difficult and aloof, ready hands and a mind like a drill. It's uncanny how I can read my own thoughts in his eyes before I've had them. Blue eyes that can turn from fair to stormy faster than a squall rises.

He's my harbor, my anchor and personal mystery. I've seen how he reels in women not trying. I'll lose him, to a woman or the job. Both are unthinkable; one inevitable. I'm shallow enough to consider that we might go out together.


	10. Fortune

Napoleon smiled then laughed. His china was spread out with the remains of their Chinese takeout. The world could careen for another week, courtesy of U.N.C.L.E. New agents, same round table. His.

Illya looked at Napoleon in concern as he continued to laugh. A slip of paper was thrust at him.

"Do not permit your friends to impose on you."

Illya looked into Napoleon's eyes.

"You have to add 'in bed'." Napoleon's smile changed from mirth to satisfaction. He rubbed his thumb over Illya's lips. He pulled it away before it could be bit a second time.

"Imposition?"

"Best kind."


End file.
